


The Meanings of Being a Hero

by kupfermaske



Series: Niwenian Anecdotes [2]
Category: Ori and the Will of the Wisps
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, lack of fics including mokk make me sad, so i guess i'll make him sad too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23895109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupfermaske/pseuds/kupfermaske
Summary: Mokk thinks about his role in the world following the Memorial of the Marsh Guardian.
Series: Niwenian Anecdotes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687588
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	The Meanings of Being a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Bravery and courage are often thought to be the same thing. Not quite.
> 
> They're similar.
> 
> And one is better than the other.

_The first Memorial of the Marsh Guardian was observed three nights ago._ It had been a simple yet beautiful ceremony. 

Everyone who came that night surrounded the pool where Kwolok once sat in, and each attendee had brought either a glowing firefly or a white river lily. Even great ones like Baur and Mora participated. Such an affair could not be missed by other domain masters.

The luminescent lights softly shivered in the water's dark and trembling surface. With the full, shining moon high above them, it further illuminated and reflected the undersides of the many solemn faces present.

No speech was given. There had been no need for one. Everyone thought of the same things in general, reverent silence: the grand toad himself, his life, and his sacrifice.

And when it was announced that the moon had reached its zenith in the cloudless night sky, the fireflies were released. Simultaneously, those who brought lilies approached the pool and placed their blooms onto the water.

One by one, with each offering brought out, the throne room slowly lit up. The fireflies loosely coalesced into a slow, spinning airborne flurry of drifting wisps, their dim lights gracing the pearl-white petals of the floating lilies, the flowers having seemed to absorb the faint glimmers and reflecting it; turning into floral bulbs that grew brighter and brighter with each passing second. And with the water's lucid reflection, the space, at that moment, transformed into a splendid terrarium of swirling stars.

Then as quickly as it occurred, the cloud of fireflies dispersed. They exited through gaps in the lush, flowering canopy, dimming the throne room in gradual increments before once again leaving all those present in pale moonlight, the lilies having further lost their ethereal glow.

Then everyone turned and went back home, equally quiet. And that had been the end of it.

For most, at least.

Mokk stayed behind that night along with a few others. He also was among the few who brought a firefly and a lily. But then the morning came and one by one the others too left, finally and fully leaving him alone in the throne room.

Then he stayed for another two days, further assisting the cleanup who arrived this morning by helping them fish out the flowers until none remained. And asides from the several instances of him leaving the room in search for food, Mokk did not leave the Hollow.

And now, in the third approaching sunset since the ceremony, as the sky was slowly swathed with majestic blue-to-orange gradients; with drooping ears, the lone Moki steps up to the altar for the umpteenth time. 

Other tributes had been left behind. Mokk has befriended all of them by now. 

There was a sketch of Kwolok, drawn on the other side of a failed map, held down by extinguished candles. An old medallion. Unopened perfume bottles. Another lily still in full bloom, this one preserved in a fine layer of varnish. That one was his favourite.

But something was missing, here.

That was how it seemed, at least, though clearly nothing had been stolen. Mokk would have noticed a long time ago. The only other thing that assured him of this was that no one in their right minds would ever dare pilfer something meant for Kwolok's memory.

No, that wasn’t it. Something had not been placed, rather. Something had not been given. It was something Mokk felt he _should_ give.

This was the reason why Mokk stayed here for the past three days.

The Howler fang hangs heavy around his neck. 

_To give, or not to give?_ Mokk inquires yet again, addressing his dilemma as he tightly clutches the fang in a balled paw. He gazes upon the assortment of tributes laid out before him as he deliberates, a slight breeze fluttering the lighter gifts. He fixes them after it passes.

The first option seemed only fitting. Mokk wanted to honour Kwolok's memory, and he truly looked up to him for so many reasons.

The toad had been the last bastion of light and life in a land slowly sinking into darkness. With the Voice of the Forest, he maintained his Hollow with utmost discipline whilst still finding time to speak with his followers. Anyone could approach him with anything and he'd always give such wise advice, always seasoned with graceful tact. Either that, or he was happy to simply keep them company. He had truly cared for them all; as a group and as individuals.

He was _able_ and _willing_ to do all that; unlike Mora, who succumbed to the darkness and Baur, who'd simply grown complacent and gave up when the neverending winter fell.

Yes, unlike those two, Kwolok had displayed true courage in the face of unspeakable, ruinous odds. He bravely defied Shriek, who wanted nothing more than for Niwen and its inhabitants to crumble under her vicious, indiscriminate rage. And to think, that in the grand scheme of things, all Kwolok did was lay a foundation for that Spirit Guardian to build upon. 

But Kwolok had no qualms with that. With his final breaths, the toad passed his torch onto Ori in peace, humbly requesting that he take care of the Moki from then on. 

From the bitter start to the bitter finish, his followers and their wellbeings had been one of Kwolok's main purposes for living. He cared not for importance -- he had never sought it.

And even in death Kwolok, again, had been brave. Fully aware he would never see neither fruitage nor failure from his efforts, he firmly grasped onto the tiny shred of light that was Ori, courageously placing his hopes upon him.

But what of Mokk the Brave? 

What did Mokk do that was worthy of his self-proclaimed title? Bravely ask someone to go retrieve some fallen tooth for him? 

How dare he call himself that when Kwolok carried the weight of a dying land on his mossy shoulders for those many years. And what was Mokk compared to Ori, a mere child who selflessly sacrificed his old life in the end; after suffering through so much pain and soul-crushing heartache … for a place that had shown him little mercy?

Mokk's ears somehow droop even further at those downing thoughts. His tail becomes a loose, limp rag of fur on the darkening, moss-covered floor. The fang grows heavier as well. It’s as if the ideas were travelling down the strings and condensing into the bony tip; subtly sinking into his chest and piercing his little heart.

He doesn't deserve his title. He doesn't deserve the fang.

Mokk doesn't deserve to be called brave.

He slowly lifts the pendant from his head. His desire is now clear; the reasons behind it indisputable. Kwolok deserves this more than he does. And so he extends his arm, over the altar … 

But his paw refuses to open. He cannot take his eyes off of it. 

Despite himself, another stubborn part of him wills otherwise. Mokk still wishes to keep it. 

But why? What could justify his keeping of it? Cosmetic purposes aren't valid reasons.

Mokk looks longingly at the pendant. Then he retracts his arm and rubs a thumb along its dried, grainy surface. He wraps the string around his paw, between his fingers. Then he unwraps it, and wraps it again. 

He stays like this and does that for a while, teetering between his two choices. The evening sky becomes ablaze in its regal reds and oranges, slowly pushing on into the later hours as the throne room is bathed in warmer shades. Even the water in the pool has taken on a glorious golden shade, this body of water just outside his periphery.

Mokk remembers a time when the fang was string-less.

Their meeting had been a swift one. Ori came up to him. Greetings were exchanged. A mission was offered. Ori accepted. Ori left. Mokk waited. Then Ori came back with the trophy in his hand. Thanks were given. A fair exchange occurred. Then Ori left again, and that had been it.

Strange how that is; how events happen faster in retrospect instead of being there as they had transpired. Even important ones undergo such rushed treatment in one's mind. Such is the nature of memories.

But looking down at the tooth, Mokk's eyebrows furrow. He loosely cradles it with both paws, now, as the string dangles off his palm. He is unsure of what to do. Again.

He then closes the distance and proceeds to sit at the base of the altar. He continues to examine the pendant as he settles down and crosses his legs, perching the fang atop his knee. And when he looks upon it once more, the memories of that moment come flooding back to him with remarkable clarity.

By simply looking at it, Mokk was helped in remembering him. Who could forget someone like Ori, a spritely little thing slightly smaller than a Moki, with a form glowing faint, with little stars for eyes? Mokk recalls the haste in his tireless steps as well; always on the move in the search for his winged sister.

Mokk, for some reason, cherishes that memory. He doesn't want to forget it. He wants to remember it as clearly as possible. And keeping the fang, Mokk realizes, would help him remember that moment like it was yesterday.

Although it had been brief, it was in that one brief flicker of time that Mokk received a gift; one that would remain with him for as long as he would live.

That fact is what he becomes quite conscious of. It was like catching a firefly that had wanted to be caught, then closely admiring its glow within the darkness of his interior thoughts. Would it be far off to say that that insect shines exclusively for its catcher to appreciate, then, if that were the case?

And perhaps _that_ had been the true gift all along, Mokk also realizes. It just has taken time for him to discern this.

It is then, that with those thoughts, that he arrives at a conclusion. Still sitting down, he lifts the pendant from his knee and holds it close to his face once more. No detail of it escapes him, from the frays of the string to its very essence.

Perhaps his trophy would never quite imbue him with the bravery he so bragged about having. But what it _would_ do was remind him of the one who had brought it to him. And if he vividly remembered the one who did just that, Mokk would, in turn, remember the one who came before him.

He would remember the valorous things that Ori did for everyone, of course. Everyone, Mokk included, is alive today because of him and his courage.

But had Ori not been preceded by Kwolok and his efforts, Ori would never have found the footing to save Niwen at all.

Mokk further knows that he would never live up to Kwolok's greatness if he tried. The same goes for Ori. Both were mighty beings who held tremendous sway in the land he lived in; their lives intertwined by forces even greater than them. In comparison to those two, Mokk was just a mere spectator.

But he doesn't have to match up to another's feats to have a part in the same play. Does the audience not remember a story even after it has ended? Do they not, too, then, become part of that play, as the tales live on inside of them?

Must Mokk surpass another's tenacity to be called a hero?

No, I don’t, Mokk realizes.

The lone Moki rises from his sitting position. His grip on the fang is firm as he turns around to look upon the assortment of tributes spread out upon the altar. For the first time in three days, his ears slowly rise in eagerness.

What can Mokk do in memory of Kwolok? Of Ori, too, though he had never left? 

The answer is clear to him; his reasons pure and true -- like a hero’s.

Mokk would live his life to the fullest in the paradise they sacrificed their lives to protect and build. With the fang, he would remember Ori and the one -- Kwolok -- who came before him, and how they led them all into a future of hope, life and light.

He would also faithfully retell of their feats with the fang as his testament to his witnessing of their mighty existences and bravery. He would ensure that their stories and memories live on into eternity, within each new generation; within the stars themselves.

Then, and only then, would Mokk earn the right to be called courageous, he hopes. He also ought to muster the nerve it would take to tell everyone that it wasn't he who had gotten the fang. That would be the right thing to do.

The courageous thing to do.

Mokk the Brave still sounds better, though, as he finally decides with a hopeful smile on his face.

And with his choice made, the fang, somehow, grows lighter around his neck. 

As the sun winks out to greet the cool night, the pendant lightly beats against his chest as he bounds out of the throne room; Mokk having found a gift in his search of leaving one.

**Author's Note:**

> Theme Song: "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last
> 
> I like to imagine the first half, where there are no vocals, is the memorial taking place. 
> 
> The other half is Mokk's thoughts, what he has learned, and what he is determined to do.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
